


An unforgetable cruise

by MiraHerondale



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John has a crush on Sherlock, John isn't as straight as he said, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, we all know what use to happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraHerondale/pseuds/MiraHerondale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up one morning to find Sherlock with his suitcase made. What makes the good doctor take his luggage, is that Sherlock says he needs him for that case. And when it starts, the implications of it will make John rethink what kind of relationship wants with the detective, while solving the case. "You're proposing something, Sherlock?" Johnlock. Slash<br/>Translation in progress</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Costa Alegre

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! This is the first time I write something in english, even if it is only a translation of one of my current works. I'm very nervous about all of these. And I've just found a fantastic Beta (Hoodoo, tank you again) which helps me with the translations, so I'm very, very happy right now.
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you for reading this silly thing that one day came out of my mind like popcorn.
> 
> Actually I'm working on this fic in the original spanish version, and translations will take me some time, so maybe the updates in this one wouldn't be as frequent as I wish them to be (and translating and the corrections of my Beta take a bit of time, so please, be patient)
> 
> And now, I let you proceed. Thanks again and please, excuse me for my possible mistakes!

When I woke up the Thursday's morning and walked downstairs, I found Sherlock dressed with his coat and his scarf knotted around his neck. I was surprised when I saw that, next to his feet, rested a huge suitcase. The only suitcase that the detective had in his wardrobe. If I had had a cup of tea in my hand, I would have dropped it in surprise. Of the few times that we had to travel, I had always had to pack for the two of us. As is the Baskerville case.

Outside, the soul of London awakening sounded with energy: cars circulating through Baker Street, car horns of disgruntled drivers, people calling for a taxi, the busy tide of citizens eating breakfast outsidethe door of Speedy's. I could see the crimson glow in the window we had in front of the fireplace. The leather's suitcase smell and the aroma of Mrs. Hudson's tea in the flat under us were a certainly exciting combination. One that promised danger, a new case and an imminent journey to only God knew where.

Suddenly, his voice took me from my reverie. Clearly, it was too early for my mind. My head didn't seem to want to cooperate, of course not at that early hour of the morning. Maybe after a cuppa. But not before, of course. Everything was better after tea.

"John?"

Sherlock stared at me as if I had just turned lime green, and I could not hide my surprise in any way. Although that was probably a too human expression to be applied to him. I could swear that he would have given anything that was at hand to put me on the kitchen table (I'll admit I wasn't thinking out loud, because a lot of images came to me, and not very scientific ones), and he would have examined me carefully, as if I was another of his multiple experiments.

"Going on a journey?"

It was the least I could say. In fact, I felt very proud to pronounce the sentence without a single, incomprehensible babbling, because in my state, I didn't believe that this would be possible.

"It seems obvious. Come on, John. I know it's a bit early in the morning for you, but don't be so like Anderson. What has betrayed me? The suitcase?" he mocked.

I still couldn't hide my amazement. I thought for a moment that Mrs. Hudson, our sainted landlady, may have been the one who prepared Sherlock's baggage, but then, a revelation came to me. She was not Sherlock's nanny, so there was no way that she would have done it. However, the alternative seemed so strange, that I wasn't able to even imagine it.

"Oh, come on. You can't be like these just because I packed my own luggage," he chided, with a smug smile appearing on his lips.

I only could blink, feeling extremely stupid suddenly. He was an adult in full use of his faculties. Of course he could pack his own luggage. I opened and closed my mouth like a fish looking for some water.

"Come on, go upstairs and get yours. We're leaving."

" _We_?" I gasped, although a part of me was giving emotional jump at the idea that I was included in the trip. "Where? How long? Sherlock, I have a job! I cannot leave whenever I want without warning first!"

He looked at me, raising an eyebrow, reading my soul better than myself could. For me, the work was only a source of income. I felt well at the hospital doing the profession I loved, that was true, but between the monotony of a health club and the uncertainty and the adrenaline rush of a new case, the soldier and lover of the danger side of me always won the battle. I almost enjoyed the adrenaline rush in cases as much as Sherlock did and he knew it. Both of us did.

I thought he would say something else; that he would make a scathing remark with a strong dose of irony about my professionalism; about always putting my obligations before what I really wanted as he had so many other times when I had refused. However, he got his hands in the pockets of his coat and sighed.

"This time I need you, John. I can't do this alone."

I was taken aback, and maybe something more. Sherlock Holmes was not someone who _needed_ people. People needed him, not the other way round; never the other way round. And to make matters worse, he said it directly.

He _needed me_.

I did not think at that time that it could be another of his manipulative wiles. The bloody bastard had plenty of ways to control my will in a thousand ways, making me believe that what I did was by my own initiative, and not because he wanted it at some undetermined time. Nor did I think that it could be part of a twisted experiment with subject John Watson, or why he had not given me any data regarding what was the case about, when normally he gave more information than I needed or wanted to know, before I asked for it. I also didn't consider asking about any of it until it was already late to backtrack. This was how strong the domain he exerted over me. I simply climbed the stairs two by two to my room and, still in pajamas and robe, took most of my clothing out of the wardrobe, included of changes of underwear and dumped it all in my only suitcase. I moved so fast that I thought that I had dreamed everything, and returned downstairs like I was flying.

When I arrived, he was still waiting at the same position. The only difference in his appearance was that he was looking at his phone, reading something carefully.

"Come on, the flight leaves in twenty minutes, and traffic is brutal near Buckingham."

I rushed down the stairs after him, shouting a hasty "good-bye" to Mrs. Hudson, who had appeared at the entrance as soon as he heard the noise of the suitcases crashing against the steps. I called Sarah as fast as I could, and let her know that something important had arisen and I required a few days off. We had the immense good fortune to be able to take a taxi towards the airport, with a nice driver who got us an alternative route. We got there with enough time to pass through securtiy with peace of mind, and entertain us with breakfast at one of the bars of the seating in the duty-free area. Meanwhile, already without cumbersome suitcases, Sherlock shoved his hand into his jeans' back pocket, and pulled out a ring. For a stupid moment that I'm ashamed to acknowledge, I thought it was one of those toys of the Lord of the Rings merchandise, but then I remembered that Sherlock wasn't very fond of sci-fi, adventure books or films.

"Until we get on the plane, there are a couple of things that you should be aware, John. In order so you're not bothered."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes and snort. I was _bothered by nothing_. And if I was, it was because he refused to tell me what he had in mind. I waited for him to continue.

"The plane will land in Cardiff, where we're taking a cruise," he said, looking at me.

I almost choked on my coffee. A cruise. We were going to take a cruise.

"We'll be incognito, in addition, so our names aren't safe anymore. I thought that we could use Hamish for you and Scott for me."

"Incognito? What kind of case is this, Sherlock?" I asked, intrigued by what he was saying.

He gave me a small grin.

"The truth is that all of this is because of Mycroft. I owed him a favor, and as he despises field work—"

When he saw the incomprehension on my face, he sighed, and expanded a little more. "MI6 has received information that the Costa Alegre may be dealing with weapons on the black market from Morocco and bringing it all to England. On the last trip, cameras equipped with facial recognition recorded the crew in a discreet way, and saw that several of its members had been in the past accused of terrorism in both countries, and that the captain had old charges for trafficking. Yesterday, Mycroft made me accept to replace him in the mission. Apparently, the favors my brother gets in the British Government have a price. And so he decided that it was time to collect a debt."

"Are they afraid that they are arming a terrorist cell in the country?" I guessed.

Sherlock tightened lips.

"What most worries them surely is the buying and selling of weapons, but yes, that is a possibility" he said, turning the ring over in his fingers.

For the first time, I saw the one that he wore a mate to the ring, understated and golden, clean and polished. My heart almost stopped. It could not, in any way, be what I was thinking. I said nothing, afraid of being wrong, so I waited, feeling that at any time I was going to faint, which, by the way, would be even more shameful.

"The trip is two weeks long, so we have time to investigate and tie all the loose ends. And that's where this little bauble comes in action," he said, hoisting the ring in front of him, squinting a little while watching it.

My suspicions were becoming increasingly stronger by the moment. That was clearly a wedding ring.

"The cruise is for couples, for that ridiculous celebration of St. Valentine's Day. Of course, single people can also be looking for a partner, but someone alone just always draws more attention than a couple," he added.

And under my stunned look, he picked up my left hand, and slipped the ring onto the appropriate finger. My ring finger. As if we were couple. I checked, astonished, and discovered it was my size. I opened and closed my hand, testing how it felt to have that piece of jewelry in my finger, testing the idea of announcing an attachment that said so much and so little at the time. Even I wasn't sure if that suited me well or not. I was not gay.

"Are you proposing to me, Sherlock?" I asked, my voice somewhere between stunned and teasing.

My companion laughed, rising from the table when a woman announced via the loudspeakers it was time for the passengers of our flight to board. I followed him, paying the exact amount for breakfast, and we walked together to the corresponding terminal.

"We dated for three years," he began to explain, in a low voice to minimize the risk that someone could hear us. "You work at St. Bart's Hospital, and I work at the University, teaching chemistry. We have been married nine months. You proposed to me. The ceremony was held in July, only close relatives attended—"

"Wait," I cut in, raising a hand. "Why did I ask you? And where did you get these rings?"

He squinted, exasperated by my interruption.

"You asked me because it is clear that of the two of us, you're more emotional and sentimental. And rings are Mrs. Hudsons'. I asked her for them this morning, and she agreed to let them us if we promised to return them whole. She thought that they would serve us, and she wasn't wrong."

Heat flushed my cheeks as I blushed. It was rather odd that our landlady thought that we were together, and let us pretend to be a couple. Maybe she thought that Sherlock and I were fleeing to Las Vegas to get married secretly... God, what a shame.

"Okay... how did we meet?"

Sherlock smiled approvingly at my return to the course of the mission.

"It would be best not to leave much of the truth. A mutual friend presented us when you came back from being abroad. We were both looking for a roommate. I surprised you with this trip to celebrate our first Valentine's as a married couple. Although there may be some discussion, clearly the dominant one in our relationship would be me—"

We entered the plane, and put our bags in the compartments over the seats. We found our seats, Sherlock near on the window and I on the aisle, and I saw him a smile when he saw my astonishment.

I was no way positive I went that way. Jesus, he wanted be so clever and thorough about this that we had to also go into the detail of sex? I didn't even know if he was gay, straight or bi! He could be perfectly asexual. He had never told me. We hadn't spoken about it, and now he wanted to invent these roles that supposedly had each one of us had in a pretend marriage, when I had not a single clue of his sexual orientation, or if he even had one!

This was so, so Sherlock.

"I don't think we have to go that deep undercover," I grumbled, buckling the seat belt. "And it is not clear that you would be the dominant one."

The truth was that flying was not what I liked the most in the world. I have seen helicopters flying over the area in Afghanistan crashing to the ground in a ball of fire enough times to convince myself that it was better to be with your feet on the ground. The time that Mycroft sent one of those devilish machines to get me and take me to the Palace by Adler's case, I thought that I wouldn't not be able to get in without having a panic attack.

"John, give me the black bag."

I growled when I heard it. I have just sat. He could have asked me while I was standing. I was tempted to stay still, as if I haven't heard him, but I finally got up, opened the compartment, and took out the bag.

"No longer needed," he replied, wagging his hand in the air with his iPod.

I gritted my teeth, trying to contain the desire to give him the worst right hook of his life, and shoved the bag back into place. I repeated the procedure of sitting and clasping, and when I was ready again, Sherlock turned towards me, with hands entwined in his lap. He had a smug smile on his face.

"And now that we have clarified the point that your military training includes obeying all my orders (and have found that I would be dominant, obviously), can we continue with what is important,John?"

I took a deep breath, by holding it inside my lungs, and expelling it even more slowly, in an attempt to calm myself. Committing murder on an airplane was not right. And particularly when everyone believed that the victim was your _husband_.

Husband. The word sounded odd even in my head. I decided not too think about it too much, or I would go crazy.

We sat in silence for a while. I thought that Sherlock had lost the interest in trying to clarify our cover, but that was impossible. It seemed that bothering me was one of his favorite activities when he was bored. The plane filled more and more, and I did not see the moment of which took off, only to know that soon we were in the air, before we land. I was very much looking forward to kissing the asphalt as soon as we got to Cardiff. I prayed for the weather being favorable, and there would be no turbulence.

"Why nine months?" I asked, in need of a bit of conversation that made me forget the discomfort of being in the air.

He seemed to find my question very interesting.

"Because, although we are in a particularly sunless locale, and therefore, will be pale by nature, if we'd been wearing our rings for a longer period of time, the skin of the finger would have become visibly tanto a curious and appreciative eye. And because, despite our acting skills, adapting to a life change often leads to uncontrollable reactions, as they would in this case be the skin. Nothing serious, but itself visible. So nine months seems like an acceptable time in this case."

I blinked, surprised, and I couldn't help but think that, if Sherlock decided one day to commit a crime, there would be no creature on the face of the earth who can stop him... except perhaps his brother, if he deigned to do the dirty work himself rather than relegating it to his subordinates.

"Sherlock."

He turned his head to look at me, question, and I played with the ring on my finger.

"I've just realized that I do not know what your favorite color is."

He smiled.

"Grey, John."

"Grey? It seems a little... sad."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Grey is a resulting mix of black and white color. Black is the darkness, the mixture of all colors. White, on the other hand, is the absence of all of them. According to the theory of color, this is only the reflection of the light that emits an object, the reflection of the intensity which cannot absorb. Grey is an intermediate of everything and nothing. It is the balance, to put it in some way. Grey is a mixture of all colors, instead of black. Because white is also a color," he explained. "The truth is that I have never stopped to think of something as banal as my chromatic preferences, but I guess, if any, it would be that".

Silence came between us again. I don't know which answer I was expecting, but for sure, that was not it. On the other hand, it was really something typical of the Holmes. I was internally wondering if he believed that he was white, rejecting it all, leaving empty, and believed that grey was an intermediate color. If it was what he wanted to but could not reach. A harmony between all that had normal people, full of all things black, and absence that he had. If so, he had given me the most intimate and sincere confession that he had ever made. But I had no way of knowing it. At the end and after all, we were just talking about simple colors. There was no complex psychology in that— right?

"Do not want to know which is mine?"

He laughed.

"At this point in our relationship for you to not know that I already know it offends me, John. Clearly it is green."

"Why is clearly green?" I asked.

"Green is a very lively, very natural color. You could even say that emotional. And you have a lot of clothes of different tones of green. The wall of your room is green. The sofa we purchased is green. Everything points to the green, John."

I noticed how the plane began to move, turning to position itself on the track, and I held firmly into the arms of the seat. The instructions were given to wear the seat belt, and to pay attention of the stewards of flight. I did not pay attention. I closed my eyes as hard as I could, wanting it to happen soon. The takeoff was the worst part for me. Once in the air, it would be easier to forget that we were to know who how many kilometers of height, but not while the plane was tilted mostly vertical, ascending. Humans had no wings, and was for a reason.

I noticed that a hand glided within my own and squeezed mine. I knew that was Sherlock's, even if I had never touched him that way. I squeezed it back, unconsciously, clenching my jaw. He should know that I hate flying. It was an irrational fear, because in theory, the safest transportation was the air, but... it was like trying to reasoning to get an agoraphobic out on the street, or to a claustrophobic that elevator walls would not closing in around him.

After a while, he began to tell me again about our cover, giving me more data, and when that ended, about the case that we had at hand. He spoke almost nonstop. The entire time, until they turned on the green light indicating we could unlatch our seatbelts, and a friendly young lady announced that we could turn on our electronic devices. At that time, Sherlock ended his chatter, and was silent, looking out of the window of the plane, and I realized that he had been talking me to keep my mind busy. I had barely noticed when we started to take off. I relaxed a little in my seat, without unfastening my belt, and looked down. My hand was still held by his, and he did not seem to be hurry to remove it. I was surprised myself not wanting to release it. His contact was... comforting, somehow.

That made me realize that I had not put up any kind of resistance when he put the ring on my finger, and he imposed upon me—because we were not talking about a suggestion; it had been a clear and distinct order, without any chance of protest—to be his husband. I had not even said my now commonplace, "I'm not gay."

For the first time, I didn't have the least idea where that left me.

Getting on the ship was the strangest experience, mostly because it was next to a Sherlock with a loose-fitting, red Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops, sunglasses, despite the cold of the port of Cardiff. In his hand, heheld his suitcase, and I dragged my own, somewhat more sheltered than his, from behind. The salty and deep smell of the sea hit my nose with a sharp scent, as if I'd never smelled it before. The seagullscircled in the sky above us, looking for something to eat, screaming.

I had never been on a ship before, and stupidly thought you would notice a constant wobble, but nothing further from the truth. The truth was that it looked pretty much like stepped on mainland soil. We went to our cabin (clearly, it could not have been two, it would be suspicious), and we came from face to face with a suite. The room was large, spacious, had two bathrooms, and a large double bed with red sheets and blanketing of rose petals.

The extra touch would have been wonderful if I didn't have it in my head that one of us was sleeping on the floor. Or I would have to share bed with Sherlock Holmes. Although he rarely slept, and could be perfectly straight or asexual, so it wasn't like I was it was making a mountain of a molehill...

But, God. Sleeping with Sherlock. That was hard for me to take in. What do I say? Something titanic. That I, self-proclaimed heterosexual, "the single" (I hated that ridiculous nickname) John Watson, the I-am-not-gay-if-anybody-still-cares, with the most unique roommate in the world, well-integrated sociopath Sherlock Holmes Consulting Detective, was sleeping with another man. The idea simply blocked my mind.

The thought of it made my insides squirm, but not in an unpleasant way. That, along with all of the above, were causing major stress in my brain. Perhaps had come time to contemplate the situation with calm and cool mind, and rethink many things which so far had given for granted.

"Who has paid it? It has to cost an arm and face. At least."

"An eye and kidney and a half, in fact."

When I looked at him, horrified, he laughed.

"Oh, come on. It was a joke. Mycroft has financed it. Although the right thing would be to say that his credit card did," he explained, with a boyish smile, pulling out a black credit card with the name of the oldest of the Holmes brother emblazoned in silver letters.

Really going to have to deal with his kleptomaniac trend. First were Donovan and Anderson's Scotland Yard ID cards, then Lestrade's wife's, and now Mycroft's cards. The next step is to plan a robbery on a large scale from the Treasury.

"Sherlock..."

He ignored me completely, surely deleting me from that bright mind. He left the suitcase, and studied the room carefully. He opened the porthole, sticking his head out to overlook the sea in the relative calm of the harbor. For a moment, I thought he would bring it back in, but the idiot was like a damn cat: wherever his head went, he went too. So he clung to the window and pulled himself halfway out. I swear it almost gave me a heart attack.

"Sherlock! You're going to kill yourself! Stop acting like a monkey!" I exclaimed, leaving luggage, and going over there. I took his legs without thinking too much about it, and I held him tightly, pulling him inward. Sometimes he seemed a five year old child.

He slipped into the cabin again, moaning and groaning because I had interrupted his research, and I let him fall on his back on the soft bed. I watched him bounce off the mattress, and my anger was gone as quickly as it came. Sherlock Holmes lying on a bed with lots of rose petals around it isn't something you can see every day. The image was most amusing. I stifled a laugh and he looked at me, frowning.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing. Do your thing, Sherlock."

"Scott," he growled, annoyed.

"What?"

He arose, and came to me, before approaching his suitcase, laid it on the top of the bed, and opened it to start to unpack it.

"Our cover, Hamish. Now I'm Scott, do you remember? These people are highly dangerous, so any slip up and we will have one foot in the grave," he said, and as soon as he did, I wished he'd chosen another explanation. Memories of a burial in winter, and blood on the pavement in front of St. Bartholomew's came to my mind clear and bright flashes. I saw him wince, and I turned to see my face now. I heard himclear his throat, realizing his lack of tact, surely. "Well, you know what I mean."

I crossed my arms, mentally counting to fifty and looking at the shelves inside the room. I thought about how we would divide them and I started distributing the clothes mentally. Again, I was struck by the feeling that what we were doing would not work. It was possible that Sherlock knew almost everything about myself with a quick glance, but I did not have that advantage. I had no idea what his favorite food was, if he was allergic to something, or who the hell was that Redbeard that his brother brought up to spite him. I knew nothing of his past, which he had studied (even if he had gone to college), where he had done, where his parents lived. He was so flippant in regards to normal things he had closed all of them off. We could hardly go through playacting a happy newlywed couple if all I knew about him was that he liked to play the violin at hours that were not normal, he composed music while thinking, liked coffee with two sugars and green tea with only one, that he locked himself in his mind palace to think, he could go days without eating or sleeping well if required for a case, and that his brother Mycroft Holmes (alias British Government) was a control freak that kept him guarded around the clock, three hundred sixty five days a year.

"I'm still not sure about this, Sherlock", I said, and when I saw him looking at me with his eyes narrowed, I corrected myself. "—I mean, Scott."

"A little late to go back, don't you think? Cold Feet, Doctor Watson? Or is the idea of being married to me what upsets you so much?" he teased, but I heard a tone of annoyance interspersed in his frivolity.

"No, it's not that—" Are you going to tell him you would like being married to him, John? Be honest, man. "I mean I don't know anything about you. And when I say nothing I mean nothing at all. And frankly, doesn't seem fair. You know everything about me."

Sherlock sighed, sat cross-legged, and looked at me with a stiff back like a cat. Rose petals were still around. This time, there was nothing overly funny in the scene, but—dark. Different images assed through my mind of Sherlock lying on his back, rolling on those roses, moaning and writhing, lost in pleasure, gripping the sheets tightly, asking for more with such as direct orders ... I gave an involuntary gasp, not knowing where had come all those pictures, or why. I felt small and helpless, lost and confused. What the hell just happened? I prayed I wasn't blushing.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" he asked, resigned, apparently oblivious to what just happened inside of me. "Besides my color preference, of course. I think we have already clarified that point."

"I do not know—right now, so—" I hedged, shifting from foot to foot. I knew perfectly well the first thing I wanted to ask but did not dare. Surely it was none of my business, but I needed to know to stay calm—but that's what I told myself to justify my curiosity.

"You're refusing to say something. You know exactly what you want to ask," he complained. He hated doing these things because he considered them unnecessary and boring, but if I ever stretched my reluctance, it all got worse. "I'm not asexual, John. Contrary to what many of you believe. Maybe my body is just transport, but it has some mostly annoying habits. I tend to systematically ignore them."

I blinked, shocked by the revelation. A four. Now there were only three birds on the air, and only one was correct. But which?

I heard him laugh quietly.

"Okay, I see that you cannot let this go. And if you have not learned in these four years, you'll never know. I am, what plenty of you commonly call, bisexual. But the truth is that sex has never attracted much my attention, but—I'm not a virgin, either, as Moriarty said."

I snorted, startled because he had been so straightforward. The big question finally discovered. Two of the big questions, in fact. Why, despite both being adults, it was so hard to talk about sex with my roommate? It was—absurd. But there it was. I decided to stop focusing on the subject, although I now many other topics arose I was dying to ask for, if only out of sheer morbid curiosity. I was becoming a bloody gossip.

"Allergies?"

He shook his head.

"None. Although I have a bit of asthma. Or had when I was younger. I inhaled butane gas by a small leak from the old kitchen, and my lungs are often irritated with the accumulation of a lot of steam. It's nothing serious." He shrugged.

I sat on the edge of the bed, knowing that this may be a long conversation.

"Got up inhaler?"

He pulled back on the bed, clasping his hands in his thinking pose.

"No. It is unnecessary and cumbersome. Next question."

I thought my next question as I noted in my mental list of things to buy, an inhaler. I would rather carry it and have it in a time of need, not have it and let him suffer.

"Did you go to college?"

" Sure. I did Chemistry at Oxford, of course. I find it very useful, but biology wouldn't have been bad. Always wanted to visit the swimming members of the University Hospitals. Molly gave me access to St. Bart's once, but has little else."

" Okay— wow. Okay, the next one— Who is this Redbeard guy your brother mentions from time to time? It seems that he really gets you upset with that".

I felt how he tensed, and I thought maybe my curiosity had gone too far. He had said he wasn't a virgin and maybe that was the code name of one of his previous boyfriends. Maybe he would have left, or have been hurt, or it would have been a bad experience—all of that affected him, and I wished to apologize for it.

"It was my family's dog. He was killed when I was little. He was sick. Next question," he answered curtly, still tense.

I could not get over my astonishment. That seemed even tender. Sherlock Holmes had feelings. He missed the dog he had when he was a child. I hated Mycroft for bringing that subject only to antagonize him. Next time he did it in my presence, I would have some serious words with him. I meant something to cheer him, but I thought there was nothing I could say to make him _feel better_. Sherlock was too independent for all. I thanked him anyway his sincerity in silence.

We continued our "twenty questions" game until the ship's horn sounded, and the cruise began. From that moment, I wanted to or not, I was Hamish, Scott's husband. And we had to uncover a cell of arms trafficking. All in a fortnight.

Ah, of course. I forgot that also we would share this cabin, if not the bed.

Was there anything better?

Sherlock stood up swiftly. He closed his now empty suitcase, and put it under the bed.

"Come on, Hamish," he said, enthusiastically. I saw him walk to the door, and still could not get used to seeing him dressed like that. So—summery. As tourist. I figured I would have to get used to many different things during those two weeks. "We must see boat. We need to look at the deck activities schedule!"

"I'll be right in a moment. Go ahead. I'll catch up in two minutes".

* * *

When I went up to the deck, leaving my brown vest, blue shirt and long jeans in the closet, and taking some shorts and a shirt of white linen with a pair of sandals that Sherlock had gotten in the _duty-free_ shop. It was all my size, of course. When I made it up to the deck, I couldn't have been more surprised. Everything was duly decorated for Valentine's day: there were hanging hearts and pink colored cupids throughout the area, and red heart balloons. Couples cuddling at every corner, and of all possible combinations. I thought Harry would have loved that place. There was no disapproving glances or critics. Love was in the air—almost in a literal asphyxia-tingly sense.

It could have perfectly take Sarah there. But I was with Sherlock, and we were married. And I was not even able to flirt. Per-fect.

"Hamish! Hamish, love! Come here!"

At first I thought it was not for me, but then I remembered my cover, and I appreciated that this was unquestionably Sherlock's voice, so I looked around the deck, between the bustle of couples. I saw his dark, curly head, and his white hand wave in the air. I walked over there, with the word "love" ringing in my head like a mocking echo. He was standing in front of a cork board with bright posters announcing the activities of that day and the next.

"There's dancing in the Poseidon room tonight!" he exclaimed excitedly, taking my arm. Too excited for my taste.

"You called me _love_?" I asked, unable to contain myself. I had very little access to the phone to record everything. Never would have better material than that one, and that certainly should stay for posterity. I held my laughter so tremendous that I stuck in the throat. It was so hilarious—

"Of course, silly!" he said, hitting my arm harder than it looked. No doubt he had read my expression, and I knew he was enjoying this.

His whole face under that mask of excessive romanticism said _if_ _you tell anyone I will kill you slowly and painfully, and then I'll experiment with your remains in ways that you certain don't want to imagine_ and _you better be taking this seriously, or next time I'll leave you at home._

I knew I had to stay calm, but it was impossible to hold it back.

"All right, Scott. We will, if it makes you so happy. But remember what we've come for: you promised you'll teach me astronomy" I replied, trying to stop the charade and concentrate on the case. I was giving him an important clue I had achieved in the hallway on our floor, leaving the cabin in search. I found a map of emergency exits around the liner, and it was designated as the location of the captain.

He smiled, a mischievous smile which was actually real, and when he gave out some information that either knew, or thought he knew very little. He was satisfied that the work was, and what was more important: he understood my reference.

"Sure, sure. Maybe later when lights are out. Usually they shine so brilliantly we will see nothing," he replied, as he roved the area with his eyes, and added: "I think the bow is a good side. Not many lights."

I nodded. If we split, we'll meet there as deck lights get extinguished. All right. Something to do besides pretend we are lovers canoodling in a bed. That would give me time to clear my head, which lately was too confused.

A couple approached us from behind and collided with me. I turned to apologize, and I couldn't help stare at them. Sherlock watched them too, prompt and attentive, and when I was about to leave, he waved.

"Oops, sorry. Hamish is a little awkward. I'm Scott, nice to meet you," he introduced himself. As soon as I saw that that was in no way a normal behavior, I decided to play along. He would have deduced something.

"It's true, I'm sorry. Not looking where I was going. Are you okay?" I asked, politely.

The girl, tall, dark and light eyes looked at us both and smiled.

"Oh, no," she answered. "Don't worry, it's all right. It's crowded. It's hard not to collide. I'm Anne, and this is Austin. We're from Brecon. And you?"

"I'm from London and Hamish is originally from Hampshire, but we live in London now," Sherlock replied, proudly showing the ring. My God, he seemed so enthusiastic about the subject of the couple, that if he kissed me, I would jump overboard just to make sure I was awake.

"Great! Do you care if we hang around with you? You seem like nice people, not—we don't know anyone here. Will you stay for dinner tonight?"

I was not sure I liked the new Sherlock. He was so outgoing, I felt like I was the sociopath. And to top it off, Austin seemed to be uncomfortable with our presence. Almost as much as I was.

I waited until Sherlock pulled away with a heartfelt but decisive declining, claiming that we had other arrangements for the evening (which made me blush, of course, remembering what I had thought in the cabin a time ago), and said goodbye. When we were left alone, Sherlock grabbed my hand and dragged me to one of the dining rooms, where they served the food. Before arriving, he pulled me until I got into a bathroom, and closed the safety latch.

"What have you seen?" I asked, curious. I had been so intrigued. It must have been something important, because he had dismissed the other couple so quickly.

"I think I've discovered one of the gang," he said, thrilled. His eyes shone with happiness. I've never seen him that way, looking like a child at Christmas opening gifts under the tree. He took my cheeks and my pulse quickened, thinking he was about to kiss me, thinking how close his face was to mine. "Oh, this is great. The first day and we have the first thread of the tapestry! I'm can't believe it, John!"

"Who is it? The girl?" I asked, frowning. He was pressing so hardly my face, that my mouth was crushed, and my voice while speaking sounded strange. He didn't relaxed the grip, though.

"No, no. She knows nothing about this. Hardly been dating one year. He is the black sheep. So he did not talk to us. Probably suspects everyone, and doesn't want to meet with any other people for fear of getting caught. And he won't explain her because he does not want her to get mixed up in it. It's a pickup, like many others, and it will not be there. I guess as the cruise ends and we are back in England, they will break up. I think he is the pack mule. He must charge a ridiculously small commission for it. He is also a drug addict. Surely he also spends a small shipment with weapons. I would say methamphetamine, but it could be something else".

"He consumed glass?" I was puzzled. I have had patients at the hospital who were in full meth detox period, and their teeth were rotting on the so sweet drink. By suppressing the appetite, glass made those who drank more soft drinks consumed, and fresh just blackening their teeth. That was a clear distinctive of consumption of that drug in particular: meth mouth.

"I know: his teeth. Take porcelain dentures. Probably pieces fell off long ago. He's older than it looks. Forties. She believes he's much younger, of course".

"Ah. That's—okay— Sherlock, could you let go of my face?"

He let me go, and I moved my jaw to both sides to relax it. Then I first saw the bathroom, a small place and cold, and heard the voices of people walking down the hall toward the dining room, looking for something to fill their stomachs. Mine growled. Besides a coffee at the airport, I had not eaten since yesterday's dinner, which consisted of a strawberry yogurt was in the fridge, just above the decaying head. It was a miracle that I had not starved yet.

"Come on. Now that we have one, we must follow the rest. We're going to get you to eat something, and then continue," he said, opening the door and out, arm in arm with me. We went down to the dining room. I got a serving of steak with fries and a beer, all while Sherlock was limited to drink some iced tea to keep up appearances.

Once we finished, he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me towards the stairs.

"Come on. I want to visit the spa on the third floor. Don't you?" he suggested, with a smile.

And of course, I let him take me.


	2. Testing the waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dear and beloved readers. Here I come with a new chapter of our favorite OTP!
> 
> I would like to name my fantastic Beta, Hoodoo. Thanks for helping me!
> 
> WARNING: This fic has explicit Slash content. I know I did not put this in the first chapter, but I didn't think it was necessary, because there was no real "content" there. Anyway, if you do not like this kind, turn around and be happy. There isn't coercion of any kind.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The characters are not mine, and blah, blah, blah.
> 
> I leave you to enjoy.

The first time I thought I would take a cruise but hadn't, I thought the ship would be a place to meet a lot of interesting women, and an opportunity to relax.

How wrong I was.

Being in a huge floating vehicle with Sherlock Holmes pulling me one end of the ship to the other depending on what he considered most appropriate at the time, was not the concept that one had for a cruise, much less a Valentine's one.

After climbing three floors, walking and wandering around the halls, he decided it was better to pretend that we were really there for more than investigating the ship as if we were safety inspectors, and got into the jacuzzi in the spa. I was brutally tempted to go to the massage cabins, but I preferred not to take my eyes off my "husband", in order to be nearby if he suddenly had an extreme attack of boredom and decided to jump to the ocean just to do something, he would stay safe and sound with his feet on the ground.

Instead of his partner, I began to look more like his nanny.

I was surprised to see that our shorts were actually bathing suits, so we could get into the water without problems. The heat given off by the water comforted our muscles, and became extremely relaxing. There were more men than women in there, enjoying the water. I thought there should be some division between the two sexes, but there wasn't. And that didn't seem to bother anyone involved.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sherlock slid beside me into the water and I could not help sighing. There would be no way to shake him off me in the fortnight. If his sense of personal space was as small as usual, during the cover it became drastically reduced to be almost nonexistent. I could feel his knee against mine underwater, and eventually our arms touching.

I felt rather than saw the look of another man's gaze on me and, for some strange reason, it reminded me a lot of Mycroft. He was broad-shouldered, the same age as me, and with a look that said he knew everything. A "Holmes" look. I would have thought it was Sherlock's brother, if it was not because he had much longer hair, strawberry-blond, and because his face was rather sharp.

The intensity of his gaze was unsettling. His eye fixed on me, and I swear it was a look that seemed so— predatory. I shifted, uncomfortably, and I turned to talk to Sherlock. I pretended I had seen nothing when I realized that he was no longer at my side.

"Damn, Sherl—" I didn't finished my word because the man on the other side of the tub was already in front of my nose. I winced and gasped, shocked by his proximity.

"Hello," he said, his voice low.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. He licked his lips, looking at me. Oh, that was new. I knew I was not as strikingly handsome as James Bond, but not bad at all, either. Some women looked at me like that while dating and some even if we weren't on a date, and the outcome of that action were good, oh, more than good, but a man had never done that with me. I was in a new situation, in which I had no idea how to act. I was happy for the first time since getting on this ship to be wearing a wedding ring, an international sign that told that I was not available.

"I hadn't seen you before. Where are you from?"

"Eh— " I pulled back a little, wondering where the hell Sherlock was, and how I would now get out of this mess. "From Hampshire. This, I— Look, I'm flattered, but—"

"Oh, my parents were from there. I'm from Bristol," he said.

I felt his hand on my leg, and jumped. He looked at me, smirking when he saw my blush, taking it as attraction instead of what it really was. His hand moved from my knee and crept dangerously higher. In any other situation, I would have defended myself by saying I was not gay, but the damn mission stopped me.

"How can someone like you be alone? The lanky dark haired man that was with you before and left you here looked cute, but he doesn't know what he's losing if he leaves you so easily—" he murmured, and bent his head to brush the tip of his nose to the curve of my collarbone. "What an idiot—"

I clenched my hands into fists, and pulled back in a sudden push. I could take many things—I was a soldier! I was ready for it!—but if there was something that exceeded all my limits, it was Sherlock been insulted, even if he wasn't there to hear it.

"That dark haired lanky idiot is my husband, asshole," I growled, showing the ring. He blinked in surprise, falling on his ass in front of me, shaking the water. "Don't ever touch me".

"Hamish? Is everything all right?"

I turned to see a Sherlock wearing a new set of shirt and thanks God, a pair of black pants, like the ones he wore regularly. I saw in his hands a set of a clothing. For me, presumably.

He went to the cabin looking for dry clothes.

"Sure, Scott. It's been just a misunderstanding."

He studied me and the fallen interloper pawing in the water, and frowned. I could not say if he was smiling or not. He seemed to be torn between amused or angry. He held out a hand to help me to get out the water, and he wrapped me in a red towel before meeting my eyes. I saw something shining in them, a quick flash. It was too much for me to guess what is could be before he turned to the man in the hot springs, and sneered liked he used to at Anderson.

"That unhealthy obsession of flirting with taken men will end badly for you, Billy. If I were you I would focus more on my gout problem and premature ejaculation than what others hide inside their pants. Instead of going out there to "meet" people in questionable places, perhaps if you'd focus more on your relationship, now you wouldn't be begging for shags like an animal," he said, cold and calm, but inside, something rankled him. There was a hint of color in his cheeks, and from my position so close to him, I could see the tension in his jaw. He wrapped an arm around my waist and I let him do it because I was too focused on his face, trying to guess how much of that was true and which was part of the show. I felt his fingers intelace with mine.

Billy went garnet while hearing all that, and looked at Sherlock like he was a demon summoned from hell, and leaned back in the water. I'd seen that kind of look so many times. It was the look of fear. Fear of not having secrets, to know you can't hide anything from him. Fear of the truth that Sherlock spouted so directly and nakedly. Then came the revulsion. Finally, anger.

"What are you implying, oddball?" growled Billy.

I tensed again next to Sherlock. I had so much desire to punch him on his face—

"Not suggesting anything. I'm saying it and that's it. Truth hurts."

"You'll find out, freak!" he bellowed, rising out of the water with clenched fists.

I turned away from Sherlock reflexively, and I got in front of Billy. I cocked my left arm back, and let it fly forward at an almost perfect hook that hit him square in the nose. Billy stumbled back, holding his nose while giving a choking cry. Blood ran through his fingers. I had fractured the spetum and burst some capillaries too.

"You broke my nose!"

"No. So close to it, but not really. I am a doctor. It's just a minor injury," I replied, shaking my hand in the air. When he took his hands off his face, I saw a cut on his cheekbone produced by the wedding ring. "Lets go, Scott. It's not worth it."

Sherlock gave him a last look of disgust and haughtily he took my arm and gave me my clothing on the way to the locker room. Behind us, Billy moaned in pain.

"I would love to fix this issue without Hamish there to cover your back, lanky! You'll pay for this!"

Sherlock raised his hand, and then a single finger. Only one.

Then we disappeared.

* * *

"Where have you been?" I asked, after changing into the clothing he had brought.

He shrugged his shoulders. I could see he was still tense by the previous engagement.

"There was too much steam. I went out to get some air and then went to get dry clothes."

I cursed. I had completely forgotten his asthma. I should buy the inhaler as soon as I could. I wondered at what point have he came back.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Do I look like someone who's about to suffocate?"

He looked annoyed, but I could not tell about what. It was extremely surprising how much reserved he could be when he wanted. And what a jerk too.

I sighed, and I couldn't avoid blushing to think how long he had been in the baths back until he said my name. Maybe the bastard had fun watching Billy harassing me. He would be perfectly capable of it.

"How long?" I wanted to know.

Sherlock shrugged, and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. It was strange to see him out of Bart's lab without his coat.

"Almost no time. I arrived shortly before the idiot fell on his arse."

I closed my mouth. He said nothing else: no polite questions, or angry or derisive comments of my previous trouble. Nothing at all. It was as if what had happened was the most normal thing in world. Something that was not worth his attention. In a way, I thanked him silently. I didn't feel like I wanted to talk too much about it.

"Well— and now what? Any particular place you want to go?" I asked, clearing my throat.

He pulled his shirt down, and looked at me.

"The lowest deck would be a good place to check yet, but maybe at night, when all—anyway. When everyone is busy in other issues. And certainly not today. If we want evidence, we should expect the first landing in Spain, during the refueling. Once the stop is done, it would be nice to take a visit to the guts of this ship, see what else it may have inside," he explained, while he unbuttoned his sleeves and folded them casually up to the elbow. "For now, it would be convenient to see how many of the crew are in it. A visit to the deck would be nice. Fancy a Daiquiri?"

I sighed, seeing that the previous issue had been settled, or at least left on an indefinite hiatus.

While accompanied him outside the halls, I realized that I had not even hesitated at blurting Billy that Sherlock was my husband. I was so irritated about him insulting Sherlock, I could not think. And I was not sure what was my opinion about it. Obviously, the idea that Sherlock had heard me say it had me a little ashamed. However, at the time I said it, a part of me felt so—right. I would not know how to explain it, especially when my whole being cried loudly that I was straight. I knew I was not gay. I was not attracted to men. Still, Holmes had an air of I-don't-know-what that I could not stop chasing. As if I was some kind of animal, and I was fatally attracted by the pheromones he issued. Two magnets of opposite poles. There was no better comparison.

And he really was an opposite to me. I was able to define myself as someone largely peaceful, outgoing, friendly—while Sherlock was listless, restless, impatient and asocial. A perfect union of opposites.

Although I was not gay, I didn't think it wouldn't have made a significant difference in our relationship. Mr. I'm-married-to-my-job-but-is-certainly-flattering Holmes was too detached from that part of humanity to conceive a relationship like that. I knew I was the exception to many of his rules, that I was different than others to his eyes, a small buffer of humanity between him and the idiots, though not at the same level. But I knew too well that I was not special enough to make a man so obtuse and stubborn modify his lifestyle towards a relationship that, eventually, could not succeed. And I didn't think myself as a man of low self-esteem, quite the opposite. Simply, I was being healthy honest and realistic.

We settled into the bar, where a young girl in her early twenties uniformed like the crew, was preparing cocktails with enviable agility. I drank, and to my surprise, Sherlock too. I've never seen him drink or even eat anything during a case, except tea and some water in order to avoid dehydration, but no food, and certainly no alcohol.

We were observing the environment, and he cataloged couples and singles groups (especially the last ones), discarding the passengers, and pointing his infallible memory in those who were even slightly suspicious. As night began to fall, turning the calm ocean water red, and people began to move in on a search of after dinner activities, I got up with Sherlock. He dragged me by the hand through the crowd (which was starting to become habitual), and we move along the corridors of the first floor to a tremendously busy descending stairs.

We got into a room with blue doors and a huge empty space. There was a string quartet playing violin, double bass, harp and viola, and a pair of flutes. I frowned. I had not the slightest idea about where did Sherlock wanted to go.

"Why are we here?" I asked.

He put his hands behind his back and smiled, looking the circular space with evident satisfaction. Then his eyes fell on the musicians, and made a grimace which controlled quickly.

"Came to dance, of course. What else could we do, Hamish, down here?"

I looked at him in disbelief. I couldn't dance. I hadn't been in to many clubs while young, because I had to care for my father, a chronic drunk which often (more than what people actually knew it was) turned violent, and Harry, who began to fall in drink to get away from everything that happened at home those days. She drank even more after our parents find out she was a lesbian. My mother got angry about it, but eventually accept it, although it wasn't her cup of tea. Our father, on the other hand, made up with her when he came back home with several more drinks. Maybe that was one of the reasons why I wasn't able to drink more than a beer without feeling nauseated. Only after my father died did I have had time to live my life like a normal man, but by then, I had finished my degree, and the army had accepted my application.

I hooked up with women, of course. I have had girlfriends and dates. But none had required dancing. And I was ashamed to think about joining the pairs of the dance floor, taking elegant turns. We were not dressed for the occasion, but that was no problem. Few of them were.

I completely ignored if my partner knew how to dance or not. The truth was that I had never seen him do it. Although, however, I had no way to know it. We didn't go out together at night, and definitely not to parties.

"Do you know how to dance?"

He smirked.

"I would have not come here otherwise, don't you think?" He looked at me and rolled his eyes "Oh, come on. Just because you've never seen me doesn't mean I don't know how. I was also a kid once. I have had "hobbies"—and a demanding mother in which cultural activities are concerned. She asked me to do something more than chemistry, and dancing seemed a good choice. Dance and theater, by the way. Useful for cases. You never know when you're going to need to pretend you're someone you are not, or dance a little as a camouflage."

If my mouth was closed, it was a miracle. Besides his incredible skills with the violin, I didn't expect him to do something "normal". Dancing seemed so— human. So common.

"Couples to the dance floor, please. We will start with a waltz," the violinist announced. The band moved into position, and other couples began to take their places in the parquet circle.

Waltz?! I did not know how to dance a fucking waltz! I had no idea of anything. I was going to look stupid.

"What has this to do with why we're in here? Can't we go— to the twelve course dinner?"

I was upset, very upset. I was to be like bumbling idiot in front of those people, and even more in front of him— he already considered me pretty stupid without seeing me looking ridiculous. I pressed my lips together on a straight line, unwilling to move. His enthusiasm while talking about the dance that night, I realized, had been real.

"Oh" he said, finally. He looked at me, deliberating, and he took my hand before pulling me to the dance floor. I tried to wriggle out, but I couldn't.

When we arrived at an empty space, I felt like a little kid being asked by the teacher about what had been done the previous day and not knowing how to answer the question. My stomach turned into a ball, and I was sure that my hands were sweating. Like the first day of shooting practice at the academy.

"It's very easy, actually. It's a matter of coordination," he explained, gently. That tone of voice of him was so nice. He had never talked like that. He took my hand to guide it to his left shoulder, and he put one of his in my hip. I felt heat climb to stay in my cheeks, and I was speechless. My tension unstrung and I turned soft and malleable at his contact. He could do whatever he wanted with me, and I would lethim. Plain and simple. "You have to follow every move I make, at the same time and vice versa. If I step forward with my right foot, you pull back your left." He put his mouth to my ear as I put my other arm around his neck. His lips brushed my ear. "It's very, very simple, John. I would tell you to put your feet on my feet, but it's better not to even try."

I nodded. I was paralyzed by his touch. My brain was not working properly. Not as it should, anyway. And the Daiquiri must had something, because it was impossible for me to get to feel something different by a simple touch of the hand of my best friend— right? Although best friends do not take you to waltz, nor teach you to, and speak to your ear like that— anyone would say Sherlock Holmes was trying to woo me.

"Ready?"

I didn't know what to say. While my body seemed most willing to go with my partner, my hands were shaking. Why?

I looked up in time to see his blue eyes flash in amusement, something dark and thick as honey shining behind his eyes, jumping like a playful elf. I was hooked like a fish, and I was swept away by the intensity of his hypnotic eyes. In my head, a sentence repeated over and over again, without pause, like a mantra. My own motto: I'm not gay, I'm not gay—

One hand slipped into mine, and as soon as he held it, tightening its contact on my waist, the music started.

"Don't take your eyes off me. Look at me, John," he whispered.

And I, like an idiot, obeyed.

We turned slowly around the dance floor, following the rhythm of the other dancers and music. I was vaguely aware that there was a "one, two, three" beat in the melody, but my head was working at full speed, focusing on Sherlock's hand resting on my hip bone, long fingers brushing the protruding bone above the clothing, and his right hand interlaced with mine. His eyes caught my field of vision, and I knew he was watching me. Maybe that was one of the few times in which I had the full and undivided attention of the greatest genius of all times to myself. And it was overwhelming and flattering alike, because nothing could distract him from me. He could read all about me, know every tiny detail, no matter how little relevance it could be. His grey eyes seemed to pierce my soul. They probably were.

I wondered how many people had passed through his life, I couldn't avoid thinking.

Among the blue of his irises, and fine wrinkles that were starting to appear from the corners of his eyes, I appreciated a lonely man. My deduction skills were nothing compared to his, not at all. I was a mere amateur, but nevertheless, I wasn't blind. I could see how he distanced himself by the way the twist in his mouth, not used to smiling, by the lack of expression lines. In his attitude, even. Of all the times I had wondered if Sherlock thought I was something more than a simple package with which to share a flat because it was an endless source of new experiments and minor entertainment when bored between cases, or if I was just a nanny skillfully selected by his brother Mycroft to care for him, of all those times when I wondered if my efforts were worth it, if I really meant something to him, I could see that I really was someone in his life.

I could see the little boy who dreamed of becoming a pirate in a country house, with his parents and his quiet, unbearable and condescending older brother. A child who had an amazing brain and searing intelligence, who had rejected all human contact because his contempt for a society that turned that despise to him for being different.

Everyone wanted Sherlock to change. To him to give way to the gifts he had and become normal. How overrated was the concept of what was or was not common. Sherlock was a marvel of nature, a gift. Toforce him to become a normal person, to downgrad his intellect to be another of the idiots who populate the world because those same stupid people feared his intelligence would be like asking Da Vinci to cut off his hands or Michelangelo to take out his eyes. To tell Copernicus not to look at the stars from the telescope because to study the sky was considered witchcraft. Neutering a genius in order to not intimidate you.

To turn one sun off just because it was too bright, and he didn't even care.

Maybe I was one of the few people (with Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg) who were not of his family and knew that that was the most serious act of intellectual degradation that existed.

In those eyes, I saw Sherlock's world, his full attention and his whole person being dumped on me. I felt small and stupid. I felt— insignificant.

I followed his steps, forgetting everything, and the next thing I knew was that we were spinning with all the elegance that allowed us the difference in our heights, to the rhythm of the music. Sherlock smiled. A genuine smile that reached the depths of my soul, warming me form inside to outside faster than any freshly brewed tea.

Suddenly, under that smile, the wedding ring on my finger weighed me as much as if it had a slab of granite attached to it, and the thin gold band burned my skin.

* * *

When the dance ended, I realized that Sherlock was an excellent dancer. He had managed to teach me to dance without made me look like a dizzy duck! That would require a great deal of skill, not to mention patience, and fully willingness to be stepped on more than once. Thank God that didn't happen.

He dragged me out of the room when he finished and out onto the deck. The lights were off except the signaling, which were mandatory. However, for what we needed, it was more than perfect.

As I followed Sherlock crouched between outposts, I could not stop going on about what had happened before. We'd seemed a real couple. I had felt like— I was not clear about how I felt while dancing with him. Especially a waltz, which implies a certain amount of closeness and intimacy. Just remembering the way his eyes looked— my heart started racing. This trip was going to end my sanity and, at the rateeverything was going, also with my supposedly indestructible heterosexuality.

This trip gave me the feeling that, in addition to solving a case of Mycroft, Sherlock was using to resolve me. At all costs, and no matter who fell. I couldn't help stop thinking that, if so, he was also having a great time with it. I knew he was an almost excellent actor, and he was able to play roles as sentimental as he need if he wanted to, but from there to what was happening was a long way.

I agreed to pretend we were a couple (I moderately agreed, I kept telling myself. There were points I was not willing to play, pun intended, by simple self-love), I was even willing to do things we would not normally do, like treat more loving and mellow form or reduce my (completely justified) complains— although there were fewer parameters about which I still wasn't completely sure. Was I ready to let him kiss me? Or— even to sleep with him? Because we had not yet resolved the issue of bed.

I would not mind sharing a bed with another man in normal circumstances. In the army you have to do many things, and the truth is that comfort is not a given. But this was something entirely different.

For some reason, my relationship with Sherlock was not well established. In experimental mode, I could not help but wonder if all hinted about us was real. If somehow it was possible that we felt something about each other. Or at least I felt something for him.

Just the thought of us having something made my face burn.

As we moved through the shadows toward the checkpoint for clues or even a bit of information even if it was uncertain, I felt again his strong hand on my waist. My brain was doing an excellent job on recreating the moment, till the point that my skin tingled where his fingers had spread over the clothing. I already knew that feeling. I've had it over the lazy periods when I have gone out with a woman, and during some of my masturbation sessions, as a stimulant— and there was something different this time. That memory was hindered by my clothing which had been involved, as opposed to the ones which I retained in my memory, fresh and clear by the direct contact skin-to-skin. The thought of how it must felt directly attacked me, and I wished so, just to see what it would be.

In these strange and wandering thoughts in which I was still feeling the phantom of my partner's hand on the hip bone, we suddenly heard a deep voice starboard to us. I pushed Sherlock back as quickly as I could, and hide us in a dark area between two columns fixed on the wall, feeling Sherlock's hand on my chest, stopping and pulling me towards him, away from the moonlit area. The white light of a lantern appeared on the deck, and I held my breath instinctively.

"Just two days to reach Coruña. There we'll get the package, and we just have to keep it in the onboard. Easier said than done. Have you checked the engine room?" the man asked. We listened carefully, waiting for a reply, but it was lost. "What is that noise? Was that the engine? Damn, it sounds like a fucking dinosaur. Fix it immediately. If this thing goes fucking off the rails, I do not want to imagine what will make us Whitmore— Yeah, yeah—" He continued.

He passed our very close to where we were, and the lantern's light almost touched our feet. I saw that with the other hand was holding a small piece from a pair of earphones. Oh, he was talking on the mobile phone. "I hope that tomorrow we'll land there. These stupid parties make me sick—"

The sailor continued grumbling and continued away, towards the pool. It was then when I began to breathe normally again. Sherlock and I had gotten us into an extremely small gap between two drains from the upper deck I took to columns at the first look, and I could feel him clinging to my back. All of he was pressed against the curve of my spine, his face in the crook of my neck, watching and waiting. I could feel the heat of his breath on the bare skin of the neck, and the rhythmic but accelerated beat of his heart on my shoulder. Also his hip against the small of my back. I was painfully aware of every inch between us. What madness.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered in my ear. His breath against my skin made me shudder. His hand was on my chest, pushing me back toward him, over my pounding heart. "They will load in Spain. The question is what. By the way he spoke, it seems that is drug, but we'll see."

I nodded. I don't think I could move, not now. He seemed in no hurry either, even though we both knew that that man could came back, and in that moment he was no longer there, so it was possibly the better time that we would have to flee.

"Are we going?" I finally asked, wanting to know if he had completed his scrutiny of the crew for that night.

"I'm not in any hurry," he replied, and I noticed almost a smile drawn on his lips. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and that motion move her hips slightly, allowing me to appreciate more than ever a part of his anatomy that as a man I didn't need to explore. Interestingly, I blushed. Again.

I cleared my throat and turned away, taking off the hand on my chest. I looked at both sides, and seeing that no one was coming, I slipped out into the hallway. Sherlock followed me, whispering my name. If I didn't know him, I would have said he was even worried about me. When I reached the door of our room, he was already behind me. I heard a voice and a few quick steps behind us. Someone running.

"Damn, John—" he muttered. I looked at him, not understanding, and then I grabbed the lapels of his shirt, pulling me toward him sharply before smashing against the metal door.

Next thing I know was that we were kissing. His mouth against mine was clumsy, but not inexperienced. He clung to my shirt tightly, pulling me towards him. A part of me wanted to push him away, but the other just wanted him closer. I lifted my hands and buried my fingers in his curly hair. After all, we were supposed to be married. And a member of the criminal crew of the Costa Alegre was coming for us. If instead of a stowaway or a gossip he saw a couple kissing in the middle of the corridor outside the door of their cabin, the best thing he would do was to turn around.

I was fighting with myself. The consequences of agreeing to this charade and spending so much time with him took over. I had no other way to explain my sudden surrender.

Sherlock seemed to be completely focused on the kiss, frowning and wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. I closed my eyes.. Perhaps he wasn't a virgin, but it had been a long time since he had done anythingslightest sexual. I bit his lower lip, taking my revenge for forcing me to dance without warning me first, and he growled. I knew the sound was meant to be annoyed, but it turned my insides strangely. I felt his tongue invade my mouth and I moaned in surprise, impressed by the work he was doing. When the footsteps were already at the doorway of the entrance hall, he arched his body against me, which was somewhat uncomfortable because I was shorter than him, and I felt his hand groping the doorknob of the cabin. His mouth slid off mine, and go down my jaw to my ear where he bit hard at the lobe. I threw my head back, eyes closed, letting out a sigh that came from my soul as a chill went down my spine.

"Now you know that I also know how to kiss—" he whispered in my ear, his voice low and deeper. His breathing was galloping fast across his throat from his lungs.

At that stage of the game I wasn't thinking at all, and I didn't really care about the precarious state of my heterosexuality. Neither the cover, or that a criminal was a voyeur in the hall entrance. The only thing I could think about at that moment was that Sherlock could kiss, and I didn't want him to stop.

The door behind me opened. He laughed low next to my ear, and we plunged into the room, stumbling till we fell on the bed full of red petals, he over me. The smell of the dried roses covered me, and struck me as dark and exciting perfume. Sherlock rose up and shut the cabin door. I sat up a little straight, leaning on my elbows, with accelerated breath while waiting for his reaction. He stood back, silent, facing the metal door. Maybe listening, perhaps thinking. My pulse was skyrocketing, and I couldn't or even wanted to calm down. When his body finally relaxed, I found myself fearing his expression. Thought I wouldn't be able to bear to see nothing there, not a bit of feeling in his eyes or blush on his cheeks. Not a single sign that he liked or at least had felt it.

I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to handle the disappointment that would came as soon as I definitely knew that I didn't have any possibility.

He turned with a sigh and I looked into his eyes. My heart stopped before it started in a frantic beating again. There, in the center of those grey irises which were now a dark gray, similar to the color of the Thames during a storm. Sherlock's pupils were dilated. His cheeks had a bright red, and his hands were shaking so slightly. His breathing was hectic, but he was making efforts to regulate it. A knot suddenly appeared in my stomach.

He had felt something. He had felt something.

I wanted to throw myself on him and kiss him again, but I forced myself to remain seated. I knew he was horrible on these issues, and that this was "new" to him. Besides, I wasn't even sure what I wanted from that moment! What I knew beyond a doubt, however, was that I would never force him to do something that he didn't wanted to, even if my life depended on it.

I stared at him until he coughed, finding the floor very interesting, apparently.

"Well, he's gone. I think you should rest. Tomorrow we'll have things to do," he said. His voice was low and serious.

I was deflated. Actually, I had really expected him to yield to his impulses, to come to me. To choose me over his mind, even once. What he had once told me at Angelo's, after believing I was coming on to him, echoed in my head: "I'm married to my work, John." I dropped my head on the mattress, and took a deep breath through my nose slowly to eject the air from the mouth, relaxing. I jumped up and headed for the bathroom. I had business to settle, and apparently, it could be only attended by me.

"I'm gonna take a shower. I think you should sleep, you know, but do what you want. You're going to ignore me anyway—" I replied, taking my toilet things and heading into our bathroom. I closed the door behind me and turned on the hot water.

Looking at the complimentary toothpaste and toothbrush in my toiler bag, and I wondered what the hell had happened out there. God, I had enjoyed it. It was much more an expert kiss than from the most stunning of my dates. And it wasn't— well, what does one expects when he says he is not gay? And I was delighted that he too of us had felt something. I looked at my hand, resting on the counter and glared the golden wedding ring on my finger.

I'm fucked.

Where the fuck leave me this?, I thought. I looked down, upset, and I saw the little bulge in my pants pressing against the jeans, in a painful prison. Certainly not where you always say, Watson. You should rethink lots of things, man.

I clicked my tongue and I decided I had to do something about it. I began to undress as I felt, with every article of clothing I gave off, that the part of me that was sure of his sexuality was falling gradually. By the time I stepped into the shower, I felt completely lost.

I looked at my erection with resentment, as if I was blaming to it by all my current problems. Once I was completely soaked, I decided I couldn't do anything to change the situation. To fool yourself hardly ends well. I was resigned and a little disappointed because if things had gone differently, this could have ended differently in a much more pleasant and noisy way.

I took my arousal and I decided to make it disappear.

As the water pounded down and with the still fresh memories of the kiss in the hallway and his hand on my hip as we danced, I released the tension was killing me, looking for a little peace. If I had to share a bed with him, so be it. But for that, I needed to be relaxed. I couldn't trust myself anymore.

My mind filled with invented succulent images of all that we could be doing at that moment. Any other moment, I could have kicked myself for thinking about my best friend while masturbting, but what the hell. He was the cause of my state. He could face the consequences. I appreciated the loud roar of the water by covering the few groans that I couldn't repress, and once I finished, I felt a bit more serene, I ended showering. I put on my pyjamas and brushed my teeth, trying not to dwell on the fact that moments ago I had an orgasm thinking about my best friend.

Leaving the bathroom, I found Sherlock in pyjamas and robe, sitting on his side of the bed, with eyes closed and hands clasped under his chin in his thinking pose. The bloody bastard was in his Mind Palace. Phenomenal. He had shaken the petals off of the quilt, and now they were scattered on the floor. I sighed, grabbed my things and got into my side of the bed, shifting the mattress.

"Are you going to sleep?" I asked, yawning.

He didn't answer. Okay. Two could play that game.

"Okay. Night, Sherlock."

I turned around, giving my back to him, and closed my eyes tightly, forcing myself to sleep. I needed to rest for being ready for the following day. To be alert. And I had to rethink years of heterosexual convictions.

The light went out, and we were wrapped in night.


	3. iPod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> I know it's been a while since I posted here for the last time. Translations are not easy for me to do, and they take me a lot of time, which is something that university takes away so easily.  
> I have translated the next chapter for myself, without beta this time, because I wanted to update as soon as I could, so when Hoodoo send me the corrections, I will edit it.  
> Sorry for the posible mistakes! Are all my fault!

_My fingers beat rhythmically wooden table, his chin resting on the back of his open hand. The restaurant was completely empty except for Sherlock and me. He was absently watching the street as if the pedestrians and traffic were more interesting than me._

_Probably they were._

_A pale and hairy hand set fire to the wick of the candle on our table, though I could not see who it was. I assumed that the local owner. I watched the wax's slowly melting process, sagging further inward the tip, making a lake of liquid on the top which began sliding down to one side, leaving marks as white tears while they fall. I looked at the yellow and red flame dancing with the slight breeze that stirred my hair._

_I could heard myself saying something vaguely, however I couldn't understand my words, whereas Sherlock did, because he immediately turned his face to look at me. I looked at him, tired of waiting for a meal that never came, and I found his frown and tight mouth. I should have said something really interesting, because he seemed to be so concentrate._

_"I ... I don't ... It's certainly flattering, but I consider myself married to my work ..."_

_I sighed, and suddenly the kitchen door was broke, opening wide. A sand cloud came wildly into the room, covering everything. I jumped out of my seat to get on Sherlock and cover him from the sand. When it stopped, I left him and saw a huge desert, high dunes and mountains that stretched beyond what the eye can see, surpassing the skyline. My hand was suddenly holding tight a gun  and we were being peppered. The Afghans were covered after the remains of a stone house. I grabbed Sherlock by his collar and dragged him crouched beside me, blocking any possible shot to him with my body. At some point, a sharp flash of pain seared my shoulder, shoking me, and I stumbled and fell on the sand. I felt Sherlock's arms pulling me towards a covering. He pulled my uniform jacket, and looked the gunshot wound. The blood began to stain the brown fabric. I looked also the shot. Clean. An inlet port and an output. God, it hurt like hell._

_"Damn, John ... ", Sherlock growled. Minutes later, he was kissing me. He did it with anger, hard and fast, and I froze. I didn't know what to do. His fingers stroked my cheek with a delicacy that I would never had associate with him, and when I groaned in pain as I felt another flash in the wound, he freed me, and focused his attention on my shot._

_My friend's white hands pressed the wound to prevent the massive bleeding and then I looked up and saw him. He was standing there with his head cocked, looking like a lurking fox that has entered into a henhouse and is pleased about it. I tensed and grabbed my gun tighter, with my finger on the trigger ready to lift my arm and shoot._

_"Interesting. I didn't think Sherlock would stoop to the level of his pet. Johnny, you are in trouble", he crooned. His impeccable Westwood was freshly pressed, and had not a single speck of sand. He pulled out a gun and immediately pointed him with my rifle, instinctively. The injured muscle complained about the effort, but I ignored it as best I could._

_" John, stay still..."_

_"No"._

_Moriarty's gun was clearly pointing at Sherlock's chest, right to his heart. I could see it from there, on the ground. Even if he wasn't an experienced shooter was very difficult to fail the shot from that small distance and it would be fatal. I struggled to push Sherlock behind me, but he didn't budge. I cursed silently._

_"I will ... burn down ... your ... heart" , Moriarty said, cocking the weapon. He fired. The bullet went through Sherlrock chest, over his heart, and I screamed. Then I felt the pain. The flesh being open and secluded, perforated. In my chest appeared an opened hole the size of which matched perfectly with a 35 bullet, right in my heart. And the blood flowed, joining the shoulder one. Moriarty laughed, and Sherlock was watching me horrified, looking at me with his mouth open._

_"John ... John, do not move ... " , Sherlock urged me, trying to get me to stay lying down while covering my bleeding wound in his blue scarf, red dyeing. A red thread started to slide down from the top of his head, his eyes suddenly fading. It gave me the greatest nervous breakdown I've ever had._

_"Oh, no. Not now. Oh, God, please ... Sherlock ... Sherlock!"_ _I shook, trying to react. It had been cold, and there was blood flowing from his head. I turned to face Moriarty. I pointed the gun directly at his forehead, but I was shaking. Too much pain from shoulder and chest to keep control of my body._

_"Wow, Johnny. Looks like your boyfriend's dying."_

_I rested the rifle in my stomach, and I adjusted to aim at the head._

_"No. Not this time. The one dying this time will be you", I  growled._

_I fired. The sound got lost in the sand, and a hole appeared in the gap between Moriarty's eyebrows, who was still laughing. I fired once, twice... Three times I shot him, and the bloody bastard was still there, standing on his feet. I felt like being moved from there. How I stopped breathing. I was curiously still alive after being shoot at the heart. I was dying, and he was still there, gun in hand, staring at Sherlock as the maniac who he really was. I screamed in frustration, holding tightly Sherlock's left hand ..._

"John!"

A pair of hands shook me to the bed. I was lying face up with Sherlock over me. Literally _on_ me. He sat on my hips, legs on either side of my torso, hands clasped in mine, keeping them over my head. His face was inches from mine, leaning as he was. He was wearing gray pajama shirt and baggy pants. It was more than I could ask for. The few times he slept, he used to do it naked. It would have been truly uncomfortable to wake up and found him _sitting on me_ as they came into the world.

I noticed that I was sweating. Bedding had stuck to my skin, and I felt a drop slid down my temple. The wound on my shoulder was burning like the day I got shot. I looked at his face and saw his gray eyes focused on me. I could feel how the blush was going up to my face, covering my cheeks, and he was panting on his face, disturbed by the dream. His lips parted, as if to say something, and my stomach twisted at the sight.

I blinked, confused. It was the third day that we where on the cruise, and it was still hard to me to know where the hell I was.

"What the ...?"

I shook my head, and turned it just enough to see my watch on the bedside table. Five o'clock. On the morning. What a waste of sleep.

I got up abruptly, pulling him off until he was sitting between my legs. I took his face between my hands and stuck to it, looking for signs of violence or injury. He ducked his head to rummage through his dark curls, and I sighed with relief when I saw no blood. I slumped against him, exhausted by the nightmare. I leaned my forehead in the hollow of his shoulder not caring what I was doing, and closed my eyes. A nightmare. A stupid nightmare.

I felt his hand hesitating before landing on my back and stroking slowly. That act was perhaps more thought for the children, but grateful anyway. I thought tender concern.

"John..." I heard him hesitate, unsure of his words. I began to feel the dream falling on me slowly, but couldn't stop thinking about Moriarty, shot in the head and alive... and Sherlock bleeding beside me. In front of my eyes. I thought that, if I was at Baker Street, I would go down to the kitchen to make me some tea and would have stayed awake until it was time to leave the hospital. Overall, it was soon. 

But in that room could do nothing but wait.

"John" Sherlock tried again, hawking. "You should rest. Today we arrive in Spain. Today they will load up the hold. I need you to be alert. One hundred percent efficient.

I groaned against his shoulder.

"I'm awake. I'll be alert. I'll be efficient enough for you, don't worry".

Sherlock's hands rested on my shoulders and pushed me until I was lying. He reached up to his side of the table, and handed me his iPod. In fact, I held out his earphones, because he stayed with the device.

"Put them on", he ordered. When I looked reluctantly, he smiled. "It is a kind of experiment. Put them on, come on. Trust me".

Before that, I looked at him intrigued, but I placed the white buttons on my ears. After that, Sherlock slid his finger on the menu, and a soft violin melody rang out to my tympanums. It was quite familiar to me. It was slow, with repeated times, and very, very nice. I've heard it being played by Sherlock sometimes at night, in Baker Street. I wondered if it was another of his songs and if he had all his compositions in his music player. He slipped from the bed, still with the gadget in his hands, and sat on his side of the mattress out of the covers, watching me.

Gradually my eyelids fell again until I could only see black, white spots behind my eyes, and nothing more.

* * *

 

I woke up in the morning with the loud sound of the boat horn that sounded like a whale in heat. Sherlock had just came out of the shower wearing a pair of pants and a towel around his neck while drying his hair, tousled and wet. There were a couple of water drops sliding down from his bare chest. No steam coming out of the shower. Cold water, then. He stared at me, stunned by being just woken up, and I saw him smile.

"Come on, John. We have to disembark. Follow some dealers" he said, lively.

I touched my ears as I sat in bed stretching the stiff muscles. There were no earphones anymore. Maybe I've dreamed it all.

"Tea", I muttered with pasty mouth for not use it overnight. I yawned as I got up and went directly to the bathroom. I needed a shower.

"Yeah yeah. Now we'll go have breakfast or something. You're quite irritable while you have your stomach empty", he said, while looking for something decent to wear as a shirt on their shelves.

I slipped in the shower, not bothering to close the door. Was too sleepy, yet. I looked myself in the mirror: I was slightly haggard and had a number of gummy that was not normal. I rubbed my eyes, brushed my teeth and showered quickly. As I didn't remembered to pick up not a single piece of clothing inside the bathroom, I wrapped in a white towel tied it around my waist, and I went tumbling to the closet. Sherlock was leaning out the porthole, watching the shore or pier, I supposed. I opened the closet, and I tirelessly looked for my blue jeans, sadly unsuccessfully. I moved all the hangers without finding them.

"Have you seen my ...?" I asked.

Sherlock chuckled and approached to me from behind. He reached out, stuck to my back, and picked a perch with a closed jacket. He unzipped the flip, and within I saw my lost pants.

"Thank you".

"You should better organize your wardrobe. Come On. Hurry up or we'll lose them".

I growled and I searched my underwear. When I found it, I dressed quickly. I felt Sherlock's gaze on me at all times, which made it a little uncomfortable, but... I put on my shoes with some juggling worthy of the most experienced acrobats of the  _Cirque du Soleil_ , and then followed Sherlock outside the cabin ... not forgetting to take the gun, of course. We joined the other couples who arrived and stopped to look at the port. The sky was overcast, so alike to the ones that we used to have in London as usual it seemed confortable. I found it very familiar, very much like home. There were large gardens, flower beds, and a walk with trees and flowering shrubs. A burst of color in contrast to the port from which we start. There was a walk beyond the docks, which followed the coastline as far as the eye could reach. A few drops of water fell on my face, and I looked up, frowning. It was about to rain.

Sherlock grabbed my hand and pulled me down the street, away from the group. I didn't worry about getting lost, but we were hardly going to find the dealer if we weren't following anybody in particular.

His coat was stirred behind him when, cross the street, we ran for a few streets of houses covered by ancient stone. Whole streets, full of tapas bars. We went up the stairs in disrepair with the slippery stone moisture, and climbed a wall of a gated estate **.** And all that without him deign to give me any kind of explanation

It was the second day had happened after the kiss in the hallway, and we were not talking about it, either. I refused to believe I've enjoyed and Sherlock seemed to give it the slightest importance. All that seemed to matter for him was Mycroft's dammed case who, also, last night sent me a message asking how it was everithing going. Sherlock said it remained with dentist visits, and probably was still chopped with the anesthesia of the extracted molar. I gave him the report that everything was slowly but surely (though not in those words), and the message he sent me in reply left me stunned.

Are you absolutely sure that everything is on track, Dr Watson? - MH

I spent the rest of the afternoon looking for cameras around the cabin. Mycroft was decidedly unlikely, however much influence he had on the British Government, had installed surveillance on the room. However, throughout my life with Sherlock, I've learned that the word "impossible" was not applicable to Holmes, unless you're talking about you understanding them. The idea of being spied while I sleep wasn't something that seduced me one iota, indeed, I put the willies. I found nothing, which leaved me even more intrigued. Mycroft may know how we were working undercover for making that suggestion... That there was more between his brother and me that only a simple firendship. I wondered if he would mind it so.

He hadn't replied to, but there it was. And God, I was so intrigued...  I wasn't able to establish a line of thought to my head. I was obsessed with the idea of not letting Sherlock, the mision or his brother drive crazy, and telling myself that i didn't like men in that way, while the other mental line, the elusive, couldn't help but assume and speculate, to fill my head of _What if's ... ?_ : _What if I tell him?_  , _What if I kiss him, just to try?_  , _What if we were really married to each other?_  , _What if we hadn't stopped when we get into the cabin ...?_ Obviously, after that it was very difficult to look at Sherlock's face and pretend that everything was going smoothly. I blushed like a schoolgirl, and he looked at me like I was the most complicated enigma in the whole world.

Sherlock pulled my hand down when we reach the end of the park/viewpoint, making me bend down. I saw some guys charge a white van, fridge freezer. Some of them carried boxes of seafood and fish, tons. All Right. They were buying groceries. Why would that be suspicious?

I was going to ask when Sherlock covered my mouth with his hand. The drops of rain began to fall harder on us.

"If they see us, John, it's over. If they identify us, the mission is over. And now, look and be quiet". I blinked, frowning, annoyed that he treated me as a fool.

A gorgeous woman left the store room of the premises from which drew boxes. She wore tight pants and a tank top, had blond hair cut asymmetrically, wore red lipstick, and had a compass tattoo on the shoulder. She took an elongated paper and showed it to the guy who had at her back.

"Suppliers are here. Have the quantity and process. The next time you lose a shipment, I'll put a bullet between the eyes, is that clear, white boy? You don't know how hard it's to move over the city with the police around here lately... since they caught that barge, have caught us by the balls..."

The man took the list, folded it, and put it in his jacket.

"Trust me, Largo. You'll have the money for the incoming week"

"I hope so. C'mon. My _friends_ have sung a false bomb attack alert at the airport. That will keep them busy a couple of hours. Take all this and get out of my territory".

Sherlock pulled me back, and the van launched, starting the engine. The bald man climbed into the passenger seat, and the woman went back into the room, closing the shreds behind her.

"They traffic with ... fish?"

Sherlock ignored me.

"Oh, this is good, very good, John. In addition to weapons, traffic drugs. Of course. Two birds with one stone. Must be independent carriers... I wonder how many bands are involved in this... maybe two, maybe three...", he murmured, his hands clasped under his chin and eyes sparkling in emotion.

"Any ideas?" I asked. I pulled out my phone and made a photo to indoors, taking care that the street sign outside, legible.

"Three for now. Although it may be two".

I checked the messages. Nothing. Mycroft was silent, Lestrade too. Nothing I could use to get myself a bit distracted. I thought about playing _Snake_  a bit, knowing that when he entered that mindset, it was difficult get him out soon. I was surprised me sitting on a branch of a nearby tree and staring at me. Oh, no. He wanted to talk. Would I?

"John ..."

"What?"

A drop of rain fell on his nose, and laughed.

"We are nearly two thousand miles from London, and yet the weather is the same. Fascinating".

I blinked.

"Yeah, well. You forget that here there's a bit more of sun... although today it is not decided to greet **"** , I continued, with a small smile. "Now what's the plan?"

He sighed and leaned his head against the tree trunk.

"Get into the ship's hold, obviously. But they would still arriving to the charging area, and they're supposed not to see us. We'll wait till the night. Safer".

We were silent for a while longer, and I wondered if he intended to sit there until it was time to go, under the rain. I ran a hand through my shoulder, still sore. I didn't understand yet how it started burning. It was supposed to only have to hurt while applying pressure on him. Although that knowledge, I had the same feeling when I got shot: fire eating up the skin, from the inside out.

"John... About the other day... If you are angry or upset because the ..."

"Sherlock", I cuted him off, feeling uncomfortably. No. Definitely I din't want to talk about it.

He did not seem willing to let it go.

"If I made you feel uncomfortable ... it was not my intention ..."

"It's okay. Whatever"

 "No. Not " _whatever_ " ", he replied. He straightened up and looked at me. Just looked at me. "You know that feelings are not my thing, John. By now it should be abundantly clear. So I need your trust. If I bypass on something, or do something which you feel uncomfortable about .... I can't make ... this ...run, if instead of complaining openly and tell me what's bothering you, you keep silent and you're still pissed for something I can't see as so. I'll go crazy. I'm going crazy".

"Excuse me? I thought it was very easy for you to read".

He growled, he took my face in his hands, and looked into my eyes.

"Before, you were. I don't know if I'm losing abilities (which is unlikely), or that something is wrong with you. I favor the second option. Perhaps you have changed too much these two years. Perhaps ..."

I was thinking about what he said while breathing slowly, almost holding his breath. I felt like a trapped animal trying to escape a predator that had me in its clutches. My heartbaet was too fast into my chest and I could feel the heat in my cheeks. I thought about pushing him away, but he was opening to me. I had the feeling that he was trying to told me something, and I clunged to that thing with tooth and nails. You can't coax something to Sherlock Holmes daily ...

"You want me to tell you what bothers me?, I muttered.

He didn't answer. He frowned and leaned toward me, instead. He rested his nose on my neck, just where the sweater ended, and began my neck. I stood still, like playing dead when I felt his mouth pressed against my skin. I could not think. I could... do nothing at all.

"For example, if this disturbes you ... you could tell me ..."

He sniffed my jugular and turned away to look me in the eyes. He came to my eyes and watched them one by one.

"Blue and green streaks near the pupil on the right... and blue and brown on the left. Heterochromia's family history", he murmured. His fingers came down and went over the edge of my eyes to sleep bags had eyelid. "Dark circles and expression lines. Cheerful and optimistic. Nightmares produced by some temporary emotional imbalance or some internal conflict ... not sleeping well. Manly lips, inherited from the father ... but small round nose, from mother. Short lashes, blonde haired ..." He ran his fingers through my hair and then smiled. "Root tufts worn. First gray hairs, few in number. Signs of dye in youth: slightly resentful scalp. Dark tones. Black, perhaps. An attempt to change, to break away from the past ... outstanding but well trained ear pavilion ..."

"... Sherlock ..."

He stopped and looked at me.

"It bothers you?"

I panted. That had been ... There wouldn't have been less intimate if we had kissed. I felt unprotected and exposed in a way that had never been. God help me, I was giving my soul to a sociopath ... if he hadn't already.

"I ... don't know".

Something flashed in his eyes. A flash of disappointment. Did he expected to me to let him get... further? Did him expect me to give him permission? I couldn't believe that Sherlock could be expecting something from me after repeating that he had any kind of interest in relationships.

He shook his head and dropped it.

"I'll never understand human relationships, John. Do you know why? Because if they were actually taken into account by the people, it really would be very much easier. There would be nothing to understand. It's something I refused to store because everyone tends to ignore them. I'm considered insensitive to them because I don't give them many turns. Where there is hate there's hate. Where pain, pain. Where there is love ... well. You tend to hide all of that beneath layers and layers of alleged morality, where neither has it. All of you try to adjust what you feel to your social parameters. They say you can not feel love and indifference, nor hatred and affection... but you can. The first time I allowed myself to feel something, I got hurt. And you learn of the wounds. I thought you were different from all those idiots, John". He sounded angry while he spoke. I didn't understand what the hell I had done wrong.

"Why are you telling me this?"

He stood up abruptly, put his hands in his pockets, and turned away dropping his head back as the rain got worse and soaked us.

"I don't know, John."

* * *

 After that strange moment, Sherlock had set up, leaving me lying there, stunned. When I stood up and looked around, I realized I was all alone. And it started to rain. Torrentially, in adittion.

"Great ..."

I ran through the streets, trying to follow the route we had done previously. In the end, I lost myself in several streets that seemed equal, and I had to stop a running college boy with a university folder. We got into a showcase with terrace and he kindly showed me the way to the pier. He even offered to walk with me under his umbrella till I get there. When we got to the pier, light step, I thanked him and walked up the gangway to the cruise, showing my shipment. Fortunately, I didn't went alone. There were other couples and singles who boarded at the same time as me for any activity or to eat, surely. My stomach growled. It was still early, so I decided to wait till Sherlock appeared. If he didn't, I could dedicate myself to wander through the transatlantic until I found something noteworthy.

I picked up the phone and called him several times. His mobile phone was working, but the operator said it was off or out of coverage. In other circumstances I wouldn't be too worried. It came and went when he wanted. He had never been lost. But that was not London. He didn't knew the streets, and perhaps not the language. It could get lost so easily...

No. He was Sherlock Holmes. He would find the way back.

With nothing to do but wait, I went to the below deck bar, and took some ice tea. No alcohol, not this time. When I left (the drinks came with your ticket, what a detail), I peered over the side. I saw the freezer van where they had the fish boxes at the dock, and the same men we saw loading them on the park, unloading it. Boxes and boxes with seafood and fish... or at least that was what was marked on the outside. I meditated, leaning against the railing, and thought about going to investigate, but then decided that was too risky. They where near to finish with the cargo.

I went to the cabin. I would change my clothes. After all, I was soaked. It was still raining.

On the way to the room, I tried to call Sherlock again, but he didn't answered. I thought about calling to Mycroft, but maybe it was too soon. When I had seen him in the park, standing on his feet, he looked ... Resigned? Disappointed? Angry? A Sherlock Holmes expressing his emotions was not very common, so I was a little shaky in that regard.

I was opening the cabin door with the card when the answering machine sounded in my ear. I was trembling. Maybe a hot shower would be nice in order to not get sick. I undressed while getting into the cabin, and picked up the clothes, heavy by the liters of water that had absorbed to throw them on the bathroom floor. Then I decided I would let them let it dry in the tub later, which had already begun to fill with warm water. I left the bathroom, and I walked around the room, with nothing to do. I watched the bed, which was perfectly made and had two chocolates on the pillows. I ate mine. Filled with cherry liqueur. I phoned Sherlock one more time, just because I knew he would not pick up the damn phone. I had no courage to speak to him after what happened in the park, and sincerely, I wouldn't know what to say. As I expected, he didn't answered. I wrote a quick SMS to him.

 _I'm going to the hold. They've finished downloading. Where are you? Please, be careful_ -JW

I waited. And I waited. Ten minutes and there was no answer. I sighed.

 _I just wanna know if you're okay_ \- JW

I looked at my bedside while I waited. Out of curiosity, I opened the drawer. I should not have. It was an impulse caused by boredom. Invading Sherlock's privacy was not in my plans for life. But there I was.

I knew he would have nothing important there, where anyone could pick it up and take it, but underneath socks, I found his iPod. I picked it up. It was long and gray. I unlocked the circular white selector, and I slide my finger across. Most of the tracks were classical music, violin. There were many Paganini and Saint-Saens compilation albums. I was surprised to find Heavy groups, and others who had heard about but had never listen to: _The Civil Wars, Of Monsters and Men, Carbon Leaf, The Script,_ and were _The Beatles, Michael Jackson, Queen_... plenty soundtracks, too. Many films that I was sure Sherlock had never seen. Out of curiosity, I put on the earphones, and went to the area of play in progress. Then I gave the play. I heard the same tune of that morning, which he put me as an experiment until I fell asleep. I appreciated that it was a recording and not of very good quality, but still enough to be fully appreciated. I unlocked the screen in hibernation, and looked at the name. Because it should have a name.

I almost dropped the iPod off my hands.

_John's Lullaby._

The damn name was _John's Lullaby_ , literally. What the hell was I supposed to think now? Without pause the stop button (I liked the song, what the hell. It was beautiful), I went to the album where it was. There were lots of tracks like that, all with strange names: _Nightmares, Afghanistan, Nocturne, Tea, Brilliant, Light Conductor, Date, Green_  . I slumped sitting on the bed when the knees no longer held me. The lullaby finished, and another violin composition came along. A sound that was already very familiar to me too. The name in it said it all: "Love". All those songs were on the album named " _John H. Watson_ ".

I thought again about last night, while Sherlock woke me from my nightmare, and allowed me to touch his head without even asking for it, or having to. When he handed me the earphones and played me music ( _his music_ ) to help me sleep again. I thought about my dream with Moriarty, with the gun pointing Sherlock's heart, while saying he was going to burn his heart down. When I started bleeding like whom he had shot would have been me. For the first time since that morning, I remembered the dream in full, and not only loose fragments without coherence.

While the music played through earphones, something into the sound of the violin broke me in two pieces and squeezed my heart. All along my face began to fall the tears I didn't know I had. I sat there, listening to my companion's art, until I noticed someone was approaching me. I saw a pair of white hands, wet with rain, holding mine. I did not remember that I was naked until Sherlock stood up, grabbed her robe and handed it to me by the shoulders. I was cold as death. How couldn't I noticed? I remembered the bathtub and I looked alarmed to the bathroom. He seemed to understand, because I tried to get up, he stopped me and went there. The music was still playing. When he left the bathroom and came to me again, there was something strange in his expression... different.

His mouth tightened and he clenched his fists. I pulled the earphones carefully out of my ears, and I paused playback. Tears were still falling from my eyes. I could not stop them. I seemed an idiot, crying alone, and all for a stupid song. He crouched beside me, dripping with the wet coat, heavier than usual because of the rain, still on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock", I muttered.  I had invaded his personal space without permission. It was alright if he was angry with me. He should.

He watched me for a while, looked at the song playing on the iPod when I stopped, and then at me. His hands loosened.

"It doesn't matter, John. Whatever", he said. His wet fringe was falling over his eyes. "Also, you've already heard many of them. It's not like you've uncovered top secret documents from Mycroft's. This is almost in the public domain". He took my hands and pressed them before releasing one, and wipe the tears of my face. "Why are you crying? Are you angry?"

I laughed.

"Angry? How on earth would I be angry?" I couldn't believe that the greatest genius in him didn't understand it.  "You, brilliant and crazy idiot ..."

I shook my head, wiping my eyes with the back of his hand. How embarrassing.

"John?"

I closed his robe tighter around my body when I realized he was crouched in front of me, and I was completely naked. _Great job, John. You've looked, men._

"Okay, Sherlock. Seriously. Take your clothes off or you'll catch a cold", I urged, smiling.

I went to the bathroom to pick my bathrobe and leave him have a bath first (I was almost dry, and he looked as if he had come to the ship by swimming). I put on the bathrobe, and when I returned to the room to give back to him his gown, he was unbuttoning his shirt. I gulped, and went next to him to lend a hand when I saw that had so wet cloth, that it was stuck to the skin and did not extruded. He stood still, letting me do it.

"I thought you were in the hold", he murmured.

I blushed.

"I was going to after bathing. I came here like you now".

"Haven't you seen the messages?" he asked.

I looked at him blankly, until I reached my phone. There were about twenty messages, all Sherlock's, except one from Mycroft. Most were the same, just with different formulas:

 **(12:20)** _I'm fine. Don't wait for me to eat_ -SH

 **(12:21)** _Don't go. They are armed and they are too many. I'm on the way_ \- SH

 **(12:30)** _John? Answer or I'll assume that something bad happened to you_ \- SH

 **(12:37)** _John? If you see this, wait for me in our cabin_ \- SH

 **(12:50)** _I you have gone down there alone, we'll talk_ \- SH

 **(12:58)** _If you get yourself killed, I'll kill you_ \- SH

 **(13:02)** _Answer_ \- SH

 **(13:04)** _Please, John_ \- SH

I opened and read every one of them. He had been really bad thinking about me in danger. I wondered how long it had been since he read that I was going down until he decided to return. In the end, I saw Mycroft's. Again, something enigmatic that seemed only meant for me.

 **(13:03)** _I suggest you try with_ Faith _._ _Maybe it would clear your way a bit_ \- MH

I was thinking about that strange message, until I saw the silver rectangle on the bed, still paused. Sherlock got rid of his shirt, and went to the bathroom, leaving me alone. I kept the phone, and when I heard him get in the water, put on the earphones again, and searched some track under the name _Faith_. When I found it I was surprised. It was in my album.

I pressed Play, and listened intently, my eyes closed. When it finished, five minutes later, I left the iPod back in place, got up, and  when I just got to the bathroom, Sherlock went out, wet and wrapped in a towel tied around his waist, with the robe in his folded arms.

Firmly determined, I held his face between my hands under his eyes opened in surprise.

* * *

 It was past one o'clock, when Mycroft received a new message. He opened the mobile phone, settling into his seat, facing the mahogany desk and shook his head with a small smile. At that time, Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard appeared with a cup of tea for the greatest of the Holmes brothers, and another for himself. He leaned against the desk, looking over Mycroft's shoulder failing in his attempt to see get to see anything. The ticking clockwise of the Elizabethan wall clock marked the pass of time in the silence of the study.

"How's it going?" Greg asked, leaving the tea on the red shield.

Mycroft took the cup of tea and took a sip before getting the phone in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

"It seems they progress. They've found a drug gang dealers who carried the cruise. It seems that my dear brother is not taking it easy".

Greg laughed.

"I meant the other thing, Holmes. Don't try to complicate me".

Mycroft absently took his hands over the table and looked at the Inspector sitting at his desk as if it were a school desk. He sighed.

"Remember to me, Gregory, why have I accepted your _proposal_ ".

Lestrade took his mobile phone and he slided his fingers through the menu until he reach the pictures he was looking for. He passed one by one in front of Mycroft's eyes. He showed them the politician with the face of a cat chasing a mouse, and Mycroft sighed.

"I could make disappear those embarrassing ... images ... in your phone if I wish to. I guess in the end, I have a morbid side in which concerns to my brother's life".

Anthea came with her Blackberry in the hands, and staring at it. She up her eyes a moment to look at her boss, and then move them back to whatever she was doing.

"Sir, the Prime Minister is waiting for you. Do I keep the warning on John Watson and Sherlock Holmes while you're in the meeting?"

"Of course", Mycroft said, rising from his seat and holding his umbrella. "Gregory, you can go to the Yard anytime you want. Anthea will bring take you there. I will inform you what's new later".

Greg saw the political march down the aisle ahead, and could not help wondering what the hell had the Holmeses in their heads for being so ignorant to some things, and so ready to others... Although, Mycroft seemed different in that regard. He seemed to have reached a harmony between what Sherlock was and the rest of the human world. _Curious_ , he thought, as he finished his coffee. He looked at his watch, and jumped off the table to return to his work.


End file.
